The movie on your eyelids
by manjuria
Summary: Hueco Mundo ceased to exist and Grimmjow doesn't have his place anymore, he looks for it in killing, wandering in the rain and in looking at people's window. Well, one window. Not that angsty, more "with atmosphere." Reflections and some slashy subtext.


**N/A:** The title and inspiration come from the Placebo's song entitled, surprise surprise, "The Movie on Your Eyelids." The fic was somewhat spontaneous... And no, for me Grimmjow is not OOC here, he's still himself but in a different mood... At least I see it like that. Oh, have you know that the other name for birthmarks is 'strawberry mark'? :) I learnt while writing and it was difficult not to put it here... This said, I hope you'll like it...

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I lick the blood from my fingers, not bothering to look at bodies on the ground. Every night is the same and I'm unable to count all these dead people and hollows I left lying in the rain. Blood mingling with raindrops looks like wine. Not that I drink wine too often, I'm still not used to the alcohol they have here. It makes me sick. Cigarettes make me sick too, although I tried to smoke them. They say here, a man with no future has nothing but drinking and smoking, the only meaning, the only purpose. I am a man with no future here, without any past as well, so it makes me even a more suitable subject of the saying. As for my present, I'm not sure it exists. Balancing on the sharp verge of reality and a dream of a paranoiac, can it be named as the present? My world has been destroyed and nobody asked if I want to be saved to live inhere. Maybe I wanted to die with everything I knew. Maybe I'd rather have fallen asleep beneath the stones of Hueco Mundo. Maybe I preferred not to long and yearn anymore. Despite that not really.

I lick the blood that reddens my fingers and it doesn't taste like it used to taste back there. When I could drink blood and water and didn't see any difference. When destruction was my middle name. When it was my purpose, which I lack now. Now I kill to know I'm not dead yet. It brings little satisfaction; the moment of realization is short and leaves even more hunger. My chest is even heavier, my eyes and mouth even drier. One day I may stop. I'll see the threat in widened eyes and I'll turn away with a shrug. Will I exist later on?

I lick the blood flowing down my fingers almost every night. Especially when it rains. I didn't know rain before. I didn't know sun and I still feel uneasy in the heavy rays so I prefer to sleep during daytime and start my own day when the sky gets grey. But rain, well, rain is a different story. It washes down the crimson blood I have on my clothes. They are mine in name only, I wear them to be left alone, to melt into crowd. I wonder it I miss my old style I was so proud of. But then it hits me how it may not match the man I am now so maybe that change I decided to make wasn't without sense. White clothes would make blood even more visible. I stay in the rain, waiting for the raindrops to fall over my face, shoulders, hands, body and purify it. And I wish they started to flow through my veins, come to my soul.

I lick the blood and it doesn't satisfy my lust. I stand up and start my night journey, the trip I make almost every night and always when it rains. Because then I'm purified, to the smallest extent, but still purified and I can think, the throbbing pain in my headache doesn't make me curl in the corner of abandoned cellar and sleep without senses, without dreams. So I wander throughout the city, without aim. Roofs are best for me, keeping balance on a wet; slippery housetop has never been a problem. And then, when I'm on the roof, all I can see are other roofs and the moon. Like a tile desert, with no people, with no sun, with no noise. And it feels like something I used to call home. I used to hate and respect. Only the rain makes the difference.

Raindrops are heavy but my body is strangely light, my steps are light as if I was dancing and the feeling is the same. When I jump it's like a slow motion, almost flying. I don't know where I am because every roof is the same and I go straight on; go in every possible direction I want to go. To cheat. To deceive this something in me that at one point makes me always stand in front of that window. It always wins. My memories are hazy, I can't recall myself agreeing to that. It is then when I wish I could smoke because they say it's easier then. Easier to shrug.

But I can't smoke so I can't shrug. I can stay and watch, so I stay and watch. I come closer and the window becomes the only thing I see, as in the cinema I visited once and it was scary because everything happened in front of my eyes and I couldn't do anything. They didn't need me there, they didn't know I existed because they were behind the screen and I wanted them to see me and to hear me because I knew things they didn't and because it was dark all around, no moon, no stars, no false light. The window is like a screen and the movie is always the same here. You're sleeping.

You're sleeping, breathing slowly, chest moving up and down. You almost always lie on your right cheek, lips parted, eyebrows twitching from time to time. I know every detail, every millimetre of your sleeping face. Of the shape your body has beneath linen. I raise my hand and outline you, every curve, every line, and every surface. I can sketch you with my eyes closed, at all times. I can paint you from memory, on the inner side of my eyelids I hold a painting of you and it replaces my dreams. Because I don't have dreams here. They remained in the ruins of Hueco Mundo. Or maybe they disappeared a bit earlier. For a split second I saw something, you were there but you couldn't see it. I saw it in your eyes so I was the only one to see it and then I had no more dreams. Only that painting I created later, much later.

You're sleeping and I introduce new details to my work. I think it's finished every night and then I realise it's not, it needs changes, small ones. So I have to come back, keep on coming back. Your eyes twitch and I know you also see a movie. But the movie on your eyelids goes on without me. The movie on your eyelids is no reflection of myself. This is when I regret I cannot smoke.

You're sleeping and I would sacrifice my meaningless days and nights full of wandering and moon, hell, I would sacrifice the rain I feel on my face to put my hand through the glass and touch the birthmark you have on your left cheek. But the glass is cold and thick and I'm purified, only this little bit but still, so I touch the glass and outline the mark, learn it by heart and if they were to kill me now, or torture me now, or wipe all my memories, I'll remember the shape of this mark and that will be the only thing I remember from my all lives and then I pretend I don't need anything else, anything more.

You're sleeping and you can't see my hand destroying the pattern made by the rain on your window nor my breath making clouds on your window. Because there is always something almost transparent between us, glass, blade, shattered glass, shattered blades. Almost makes a difference, you see.

You're sleeping and I stand up. The rain destroys everything I made and you'll never know I was here and then I think that it has some sense. Because I'm not the movie on your eyelids.

I go away without a shrug. Because I can't smoke. They say it's the only problem.

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_14 April 2010_


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